


A thousand possibilities, A single reality

by voxofthevoid



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail's lovely but she's dead in this, Alternate Realities, Angst, Bedelia better watch her back, Canon compliant until Mizumono, Character Deaths, Cuddling, Dreamwalking, Gotta love this fandom, Growing Old, Hanibal is human, Hannibal is pining for Will, Hannibal's red sweater, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Murder Husbands, Obsession, Oral Sex, Post Finale, Reunions, Scarred Will, That lovely gutting scene, True love...of a fucked up nature, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, parallel worlds, shameless fluff, with a twist again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the run with Bedelia, Hannibal finds himself plagued with visions into alternate realities where he and Will are together.   </p><p>It doesn’t take long before his brief, random glimpses into these worlds become his sole respite from the unbearable tedium of a life without his Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A thousand possibilities, A single reality

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [千缘一践 (A thousand possibilities, A single reality) By Silverfeathered_Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284968) by [sanarubya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanarubya/pseuds/sanarubya)



> I don’t even know what I’ve done here. Still, enjoy!
> 
> Also, i uploaded this monster from my tablet, so if there are errors, please let me know. (And don't eat me!!!)

**I**

 

The smile he gives Bedelia is warm and gentle, as is the hand he places on hers. To others, it would seem like an affectionate gesture from a doting husband but he knows that she sees it as the warning it is.

 _Do not try anything_.

She smiles back, a silent ‘Yes, I understand.’ But for a second, it is not her face that he sees. Tamed, dark curls replace honey blonde hair and he finds himself staring into a stunning pair of blue-grey eyes. The painfully familiar face of Will Graham smiles back at him, genuine joy coloring his expression and Hannibal finds himself breathless with the beauty of it.

He jerks his hand as if burned and ignores the knowing look in his former psychiatrist’s eyes as he leans back with his eyes closed. That same smiling face appears behind his eyelids, bringing along with it the thoughts of a future he’d longed for with an intensity he’d never known before.

He wills himself to sleep, hoping that he wouldn’t dream. He knows what he will see if he does.

*

Hannibal wakes to the feeling of a large, warm body sprawled half on top of him. His eyes flash open and he is far too stunned to even react at the sight that greets him.

Distantly, he notes that he is in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, but all that is ignored in favor of his bedmate. A half-naked bedmate who is lying _on_  him, his torso strewn across Hannibal’s, with the younger man’s head on his chest. Will is smiling in his sleep, his face peaceful in a way Hannibal has never seen before.

The sight makes something in his chest tighten in a curious mixture if pain and pleasure.

This… is not what he was expecting, even in a dream.

“Will?” He sounds small and weak, but it’s the best he can manage with shock still coursing through his system. It seems to be enough as Will’s eyes flutter open and he lifts his head slightly, enough to look him properly in the eyes.

“Hey there.” Will’s voice is thick with sleep and the look in his eyes is so _adoring_  that the fact that this is only a dream that will never become a reality is nearly enough to undo him. Never once has he imagined that Will would look at him like that.

Will, eerily perceptive even here, picks up on his distress and shifts so that he is now leaning over Hannibal’s mostly nude form. A rough, calloused hand cups his cheek oh-so-gently and Hannibal cannot help but lean into it, taking a measure of comfort from the gesture though even that is tempered with the awareness of what awaits him once he wakes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Will asks him, a thumb gently stroking him. “Come on, love, tell me.”

The endearment makes him suck in a sharp breath and his eyes flutter close as he labors to bring himself back under control. It doesn’t make sense for him to be so surprised in his own dream, but he’s never allowed himself to even imagine a scenario where he and Will were more than friends. Not because he didn’t desire it, but rather because he _did_ with a passion that frightened him.

“I find myself somewhat… confused.” The words are the result of what he can only describe as pure masochism, because he _knows_  that this will only haunt his waking hours with more thoughts and images of that lost future. But he can’t quite resist the chance to hear from Will’s own lips- even if it’s only in a dream- that he chose Hannibal.

He opens his eyes to see Will staring at him with a bemused frown. His curls fall haphazardly onto his face and Hannibal has to fight the urge to brush them back. The hand on his cheeks continues stroking him soothingly.

“Confused about what?”

 _Everything,_ he wants to say. He expected to dream about Will, but not like this. He expected to relive the last time he’d seen Will, pale and bleeding, looking at him with blue eyes full of betrayal and misery. He expected to see abstract images of a future that he’d envisioned for the three of them. He had not expected this. Why is his own mind torturing him like this?

“My memories seem to be rather blurred,” he says instead. It is a hasty lie, but it’s the best he can come up with at the moment.

“Why would your memories be blurred? It’s not like your mind to… What is the last thing you remember?” Will sounds concerned and his voice takes on a more familiar cadence than it did when it held open affection.

“Our last dinner… back at my house in Baltimore.” _The one where I gave you a final chance to come clean and you turned it down._

Will’s eyes widen in shock and he sits up. The hand on his cheek falls away and Hannibal misses it instantly.

“The one where you asked me to leave with you. But that was months ago, Hannibal.”

Something in that voice when he says ‘asked me to leave with you’ pulls at Hannibal.

“Will you tell me what happened that night? And afterwards?”

This version of Will Graham- because he is so very different from the one he is familiar with that, for a second, Hannibal wonders if this is really a dream at all- starts as if to say something, but just shakes his head as if to clear it. There is worry and something akin to panic in his eyes, but his voice is steady when he answers.

“I said yes. I told you the truth about everything. You forgave me. And we left. Fed my dogs, left a note for Alana and boarded a plane for Italy. We’ve been here since.”

 _Italy._ But his plane tickets had been for France.

“What about Abigail?”

Will jerks as if he’s been slapped and he eyes Hannibal in alarm. “What are you talking about? Abigail is dead. You- you killed her… to frame me. How confused are you, Hannibal?”

Will moves as if to get up, but Hannibal’s hands reach out on their own volition and pull the younger man into a tight, desperate embrace.

“Wait, Will. Just stay with me like this. For a while.”

“But-”

 _“Please_ , Will.”

He hates the pleading note in his voice but at least Will doesn’t try to move to get up again. He just wraps his arms around Hannibal as best as he can and murmurs soothingly into his neck. But Hannibal doesn’t hear him over his own tumultuous thoughts. Abigail is dead. They are in Italy. He and Will are lovers.

And that is when he just knows, that this is no dream. He knows, as he feels another heart beat in tandem with his, that in some reality, a Hannibal Lecter really did kill Abigail Hobbs to frame Will as the Copycat killer and purchased plane tickets to Italy instead of France.

There are probably other differences he does not know, but he is more than willing to learn, if he can have _this_. If all this is real.

He falls asleep like that, without really trying, with the steady weight of Will in his arms and that sensation persists for a long time even after Bedelia rouses him on the plane and tells him that they are going to land soon.

The naked love he’d seen in _that_  Will’s eyes haunt him for longer still.

**II**

 

The hotel that they check into is mediocre by his standards, but it is tolerable and he doubts that they will be able to stay even there for long. 

Bedelia doesn’t speak to him all that much, but he can feel her eyes on him, and the knowing look in them only serves to irritate him further. Once, he might have admired her perception, but at the moment, he is too raw, his person suit too torn. It feels as if he wounded himself as much as Will when he gutted him.

The dream-or whatever it was- that he had on the plane keeps haunting him. Phantom sensations assail him and he finds himself wondering if Will really did feel like that pressed against him, if their bodies really did fit together so perfectly.

It affects his sleep, but he doesn’t dream like _that_ again. He attempts- and fails- to convince himself that he is not disappointed.

It is only on the final day of their stay in that hotel that he ‘dreams’ again.

*

He is only mildly surprised to find himself in his old bedroom in Baltimore. Alone, this time.

The first thing he does is grab his cell phone- which is found on the bedside table, right where he used to put it- and check the date. A sharp gasp escapes him when he sees it.

It is the day after his altercation with Tobias Budge.

Only then does he take stock of his body and allow himself to feel the somewhat familiar injuries. It’s pretty much as he remembers… except for his sore ass, the bite marks littering his torso and the heady scent of sex in the air.

Hannibal is quite sure that, in his reality, he had slept alone that night.

That is evidently not the case here because, now that he is fully aware, his body feels thoroughly fucked.

It is only with minimal difficulty that he dons his robe and makes his way downstairs, heart beating ever so slightly faster when he hears the sounds coming from his kitchen. Given the nature if his previous dream (?) and the state of his body, he can imagine exactly who he’s going to find in there.

That, however, is not enough to keep his breath from deserting him at the sight of Will Graham bustling about in his kitchen, clad in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and _his_  red sweater.

 _Beautiful_ ,  is all he can think as Will turns to face him, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“You’re, uh, awake". He states, fidgeting with the sleeves of the sweater. “I, uh, made breakfast. Toast. It’s nothing like the stuff you make, but you had a tiring day yesterday and I didn’t want to wake you.”

It takes Hannibal a while to exert enough control over himself to reply in a fitting manner.

“I’m sure it’s delicious, Will.” He feels a pang at the open, fond smile that the empath bestows on him. His mind recalls a conversation that took place once, that day in his office, after Jack and all the others had left, leaving him alone with Will.

_“Do you… would you like me to drive you home?”_

He had refused then, pointing out that Will himself was injured and that he was perfectly fine with taking a cab. The empath had agreed reluctantly and Hannibal had known that if Will had been a little less socially awkward, he’d have insisted on personally taking him home. And maybe, he’d have agreed.

He wonders if _this_ is what would have happened if he’d said ‘Yes’ then.

Another _might have been_  he gets to experience. Time stolen from another’s life.

The silence between them is surprisingly comfortable as they set up the table and start eating. Hannibal though, is much more focused on his companion than the food, though it is quite good. It doesn’t take long for Will to get flustered at the attention and his voice is mock-irritated when he points it out.

“You’re staring, Hannibal.”

“You’re beautiful.” The words slip past his lips before he can think better of it (he blames it entirely on these strange situations he finds himself in) but the light blush that colors Will’s cheeks is definitely worth the momentary lapse in control.

Unable to resist, he pushes away his plate and reaches towards Will, wanting- _needing_ \- to kiss him at least once before this too is ripped away from him. Will meets him halfway. He tastes so much more divine than he’d ever imagined and it is all too easy for him to lose himself in the taste and feel of the empath, his injuries and concerns forgotten in the warmth that floods him as their mouths slide against each other.

They are both breathless when they part, but neither pulls away. Will gently rests his forehead against his and there is a smile in his voice when he says, “You know, this is terribly unprofessional.”

“I don’t really care.” Hannibal whispers back, lightly nipping at Will’s chin. “Do you?”

Will laughs, the sound light and carefree in a way Hannibal has never heard before. He looks so _young_ in that moment that Hannibal feels another pang in his chest.

“Do I look like I’m complaining? Finish your breakfast.” Will chides teasingly, echoing his words from that motel room back in Minnesota.

Hannibal smiles and does as he’s told.

He blinks and he’s back in the hotel room in Paris.

**III**

 

It doesn’t take long for his face to be plastered across the international news channels, along with that of Bedelia. He is not concerned- he had expected this- and if his companion is, she doesn’t show it. The only inconveniences are altering their appearances and moving into a cheap, nearly rundown motel. The latter, he hopes, can be remedied soon. The news that concerns him more is the fate of Will Graham. And the rest. In the end, it is _Tattlecrime_ that provides him with the information, though he can’t find it in himself to even appreciate Freddie Lounds’ hound-like tendencies this time around. Her continued existence only reminds him of Will’s deception.

But despite of that, the picture of the man comatose and hooked up to numerous tubes causes a mixture of regret, loss, sorrow and worst of all, _guilt_ to well up within him. Not even the sting of betrayal that he _still_ feels is enough to numb that.

As for the rest, Jack is dead. So is Abigail. Alana is apparently paralyzed from waist down.

Bedelia tries, once, to touch the topic. He quells her with a scathing look that robs her of her words and turns her pale.

For about a week, he sleeps normally. No dreams, no alternate futures… nothing. Still, he hopes.

And on a particularly dull Monday spent cooped up in the room, he gets his wish.

*

Once again, he wakes up in his old bedroom, only this time he is fully dressed in his pajamas and uninjured. And he is rather taken aback when a quick look at the date shows the year to be 2017. It’s not much, only four years after his initial meeting with Will, but he is still curious to see what this ‘dream’ holds for him. He hopes this is another reality where Will is his.

Hannibal can’t even bring himself to hate Will for making him feel so _human._

But a quick search of the house reveals that he is, in fact, alone. At least it seems that way. It’s not all that unlikely either, given that it is about 3 am in the morning. But there is a persistent feeling at the back of his mind that tells him this is not the case. Which is ridiculous as the only place he has yet to check is-

The anticipation he’s felt ever since he woke up only grows stronger as he silently descents the stairs to his basement. The one which he had to purge in _his_  reality after Beverly Katz’s unfortunate encounter with Abigail.

He is only halfway down when the smell hits him. The delicious and all too familiar aroma of fresh blood permeated with the somewhat bitter scent of fear. He speeds up.

Anticipation gives way to pure, unadulterated wonder as he takes in the sight of Will, expertly slicing through a human body- a young man, blond, early twenties- and dressed in a protective suit similar to his own, but evidently tailored to fit the somewhat smaller man.

It is, he thinks, a sight he'd have razed empires to witness.

He watches, stunned, as Will carefully removes the liver from the body with sure, practiced movements.

“How long are you just going to watch me?” Will doesn’t look at him, but his voice is light and playful. When no reply is forthcoming- Hannibal unable to speak just yet – he slowly, deliberately raises his eyes to Hannibal’s. And whatever Will sees there makes his lips twist into a sly grin.

“I guess you plan to enjoy the view a while longer.” Will’s tone is flirtatious and his gaze is heated as it roams Hannibal’s body, clad only in his sleepwear.

Hannibal manages to smile back, finally adapting somewhat to this new, surreal situation and leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I think I’ll do just that. Please… continue.”  

Will huffs out a small laugh and returns his attention to the corpse, flaying a few cuts of meat from the man’s toned thighs, completely unaware of the awe that threatens to overwhelm Hannibal at the sight. He watches, mesmerized, as Will works with easy movements that can only be born out of practice. He wonders, for a moment, how this came to be, but resigns himself to not knowing. And even if he did, what would be the point? The knowledge can only serve to torture him further once he wakes.

It isn’t long before Will sheds his suit, leaving him in a pair of battered jeans and a black T-shirt, and walks towards Hannibal. He pulls the younger man into a tight hug when he’s close and Will chuckles into the hollow of his neck.

“I couldn’t sleep yesterday, so I thought I’d get to work on him. Did I wake you? It’s pretty damn early.”

“I just woke up and decided to come find you.” It’s the truth, just missing a few, interesting factors.

“Then, I guess you just missed me.” Will pulls back to grin at him and Hannibal can recall the few times he’s seen the same expression on _his_  Will, mostly after his release from the hospital. Only, this time, there is nothing stopping him from leaning forward and pressing their mouths together in a hungry kiss.

He can get used to these fantastic, inexplicable dreams.

The kiss turns heated and nearly violent almost instantly and it’s almost embarrassing how easily he gets hard. But all thoughts are driven from his mind when Will drops to his knees and mouths at his erection through the thin material of his pants, looking up at Hannibal through his lashes. Will yanks down the silk material to free his fully erect cock and swallows it down in one, smooth motion that draws a soft gasp from the older man.

Hannibal keeps himself utterly still as Will’s mouth moves over his hard length, resisting the urge to buck his hips into that inviting warmth. Will pulls away far too soon and bares his teeth at Hannibal, eyes dark and wild with lust.

“Fuck my mouth,” he growls and all restraint is lost.

He grabs a fistful of dark curls when Will takes him in again and drives himself forward, ruthlessly plunging himself into Will and drawing back just as quickly, setting a brutal pace that earns him choked gasps and whimpers from the beautiful creature at his feet. He doesn’t last long; it doesn’t matter what this _body_ has done before, _he_  has wanted Will far too much for far too long for him to last. He comes with a resounding shout into Will’s mouth and the world disappears as his orgasm rips through him, Will’s throat convulsing around his cock as he swallows.

When he comes back to his senses, he is lying on a cheap, lumpy mattress in the old motel room. His breath is coming in harsh pants and he is so hard that it is painful.

As he gives in, curls a hand around his erection and strokes, it is not the murderous angel he’s just seen that he imagines, but the man he had torn up with his own hands.

**IV**

 

He kills Bedelia a month later.

It’s quick and efficient. She is not made to suffer. He doesn’t humiliate her. She deserves better after all.

Her death is something he regrets as she was someone who he genuinely liked and admired. But she has been marked for death for a while now. When he had approached her _that_ night, after the bloodbath in his house, he’d been intending to kill her. The offer to accompany him had been impulsive and he had known even then that her reason for accepting it was the chance to study someone such as him at close quarters.

Her presence, however, had not been as helpful or enjoyable as he’d hoped. It wasn’t her fault, she remained the same as always, but Hannibal found her… inadequate nonetheless.

And as much as he would have liked to just let her run from him, he is not one to leave loose ends.

Bedelia, for her part, had not been all that surprised when he turned on her. Her eyes had been calm, with a sort of quiet resignation. Her words had been as sharp as ever though.

_Your persistent obsession with your Will Graham will one day be your downfall. I am only sorry that I will not be around to see it._

He’s not surprised she’d picked up on his _preoccupation_  even though he’d not mentioned his unusual dreams to her, deeming them far too private for discussion.

And her last words does make him wonder if one of his reasons for killing her was the fact that she wasn’t _Will._

As for his ‘downfall’, Hannibal is not so sure he hasn’t fallen too deep already. This _freedom_  he is so desperate for doesn’t really feel like freedom at all. He is a captive to his own treacherous emotions. A captive of whatever it is that he feels for his William.

He knows, though, that if he does truly fall, he will take Will down with him.

There can be no other way.

He leaves Bedelia’s body in the room for anybody to find and boards a plane for Nice. With his hair dyed black, a messy hairstyle, blue contacts and casual clothes, he looks nothing like himself and everything like Mr Robert Chase, the name and face on his fake passport.

And it is on the plane that he slips from slumber into one of his strange visions, the ones that has eluded him for weeks now.

*

This time, Hannibal doesn’t ‘wake up’ anywhere. Instead, he opens his eyes to find himself in a beautiful, deserted beach. Its nearly sundown and there is something soothing about the gentle breeze and the quiet waters.

It looks like a place Will would love.

Another figure joins him and he doesn’t need to see the person to know who it is. He just stands there beside Hannibal, quiet. He turns his head, eager to see Will- or at least a version of him- in the flesh again and is struck speechless by the face that greets him.

It’s Will, of that he is sure, but the man beside him must at least be sixty, with a deeply lined face and wispy white hair. And there’s a scar- deep and ragged- on one side of his face, running from just beneath his eye to his chin. But the eyes… the eyes are still the same. Brilliant blue with flecks of grey and brown.

It is then that Hannibal realizes his own body is quite aged. He feels a little stiff in the joints and what he can see of his hands and feet are veined and wrinkled.

They were two old men. And they were together.

For some reason, the thought brings tears to his eyes that spill forth, unbidden.

Will doesn’t speak to him as he returns his gaze to the sea, but he slides his hand into Hannibal’s and grips it tight. There is a small, content smile on his face and more tears fall.

For a long time, they just stand there, watching the sun and the ocean. They don’t speak, but there is something between them, an odd sort of energy, that fills his insides with a comforting warmth.

Hannibal feels as if he could stay here, like this, forever.

**V**

 

Europe loses interest in Hannibal Lecter after a week or so and the newspapers no longer have his face on their front page. He is quite sure that is it another case entirely in the U.S though. He is an embarrassment for the F.B.I, after all. The serial killer consultant.

He gets a job as a librarian in Nice. It’s not that his funds are diminishing, but he is not all that keen to spend any more time in total inactivity. He takes a leaf out of Will’s book and starts wearing thick-rimmed glasses. He also tries his best to keep away from people. For now, it’s better that way.

He spends most of his spare time cooking and on the internet, looking for news on a certain profiler. Or rather, ex-profiler. He is genuinely surprised to read that Will vanished not long after his release from the hospital. The F.B.I is searching for him as well, his disappearance spurring them to look label him as a wanted man, for the murder of Randall Tier.

While a part of Hannibal likes to think that all of this is just a ruse and Will is actively hunting for him- there is a reason he allowed them to find Bedelia’s corpse after all- there is simply no way he can know for sure. He has never been able to predict anything about Will.

All he can do is wait.

So, he waits. And once in a while, he dreams.

*

It is mildly disorienting to open his eyes and find himself in a mist covered clearing beneath a pitch black sky. It passes quickly and he can feel a warm body leaning intimately against his front, wrapped in his arms.

Even without seeing the dark curls tucked under his chin, he knows that he currently has an armful of Will Graham.

Now, where are they?

That question is answered easily enough when Hannibal’s eyes land on a rather familiar structure in the distance, rendered unfamiliar by the ghostly mist that swirls around it, giving a mystical quality to the light emanating from it.

_At night, I leave the lights on in my little house and walk across the flat fields. When I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat on the sea. It’s really the only time I feel safe._

“What do you think?” Will’s voice is low and hushed yet the words still seem to ring too loudly in the utter silence that surrounds them.

“It’s beautiful,” he replies, burying his face in the mop of curls, inhaling deeply. The sickly sweet smell of advanced encephalitis assaults his senses, nearly drowning out the accompanying odors of that dreadful aftershave and Will’s natural scent. It has been a very long time since he has been able to indulge in _this_  and it makes his heart beat slightly faster. “It really does look like a boat on the sea. Tell me, Will, do you feel safe?”

The man in his arms laughs softly, the sound sending vibrations through both their bodies. He turns so that he’s facing Hannibal. Will’s face is flushed from the raging fever and his eyes are far too bright, even in the darkness.

He remembers seeing his Will in this state. He can’t, of course, remember being in this particular situation.

“I always feel safe with you.”

Will’s answer, delivered with a slight smile, _hurts_  Hannibal with it's sincerity.

 _‘You shouldn’t.’_ Hannibal wants to tell him, ‘ _You should run as far away from me as you can, my sweet William.’_ It’s strange, this burning desire to protect this exquisite creature from himself. But he doesn’t say those words.

Instead, he touches his forehead to Will’s warm one and closes his eyes, breathing in the scent that is suddenly a lot less appealing than it was a moment ago.

It’s Will who draws away with a sigh of regret, entwining his fingers with Hannibal’s as he did so.

“Come on, let’s head back. We’ll catch a chill if we stay out here.”

As he follows Will back to his house, Hannibal wonders, for the first time, if these experiences are meant to be a gift or a curse.

He doesn’t make it to the house.

**VI**

 

Up until now, Hannibal was content to simply enjoy his strange visits into other realities without questioning the cause behind them too much. A major reason for that is the fact that he knows he will not find a concrete answer. In fact, the only reason he is certain that they are not simply fantastic dreams produced by his subconscious in the wake of Will’s sudden, perhaps permanent, absence from his life, is because he has complete confidence in his control over his own mind.

Even now, the only reason he can think of for these experiences is his inexplicable connection to Will. His _longing_ for his Will.

And if he is to say that he doesn’t enjoy them for those short durations, then he would be lying.

He had tried, that night in his house in Baltimore, to sever his ties with Will.

He had failed.

Will would forever be a part of him, the two long scars on his arms physical representations of the much deeper scars on his psyche.

Not that he can really complain. He did the same to Will.

So, as much as he appreciates these rare dreams, they are not enough to slake his need for Will. Though the various versions of Will he encountered in each one of them affected him in one way or another, they don’t quite compare to the man _he knows._

It’s frustrating. Sweet, sweet torture.

And he cannot try to find Will in his reality just yet. His fugitive status is still too new for him to attempt to return to the States to hunt down the man. America and especially the Baltimore elite are still in an uproar about the discovery of his true nature.

He can be patient, though. He will be patient. But he cannot deny that his lingering obsession with Will is slowly, but surely, draining the joy out of his hard won freedom, maybe even life itself.

*

 _This_ , Hannibal thinks as he watches Will patiently and meticulously braid the hair of a laughing Abigail _, is what I had expected to dream of that day in the plane._

Once again, he is unfamiliar with the room he is in, but the bed he’s currently lying on is comfortable and he is quite happy to watch a slightly exasperated Will try to get their surrogate daughter to remain still on the bed as he fixed her hair. His eyes are drawn to the mass of scarred tissue on one side of Abigail’s face where her ear used to be. It is hidden from sight when Will finishes and arranges the plait in such a way that it hides its absence.

“You’re up.” Will tells him without looking at him, sitting down besides Abigail on the large bed. She turns to Hannibal with a wide grin.

“Good morning, dad.”

Fate is being either extremely kind or extremely cruel to him.

“Good morning, Abigail. Will.”

“I’ll go feed Winston and take him for a walk,” Abigail announces to the two of them and takes off, the bounce to her steps all too evident. Hannibal doesn’t even bother thinking about Winston being here, wherever 'here' is. Nothing could surprise him anymore.

“You have that look again, Hannibal.” Will tells him as he slides under the deep blue covers to join him and his eyes snap to Will’s, drinking in the warmth evident in their cerulean depths.

“What look?” he asks him, shifting closer until he could feel the heat of the younger man’s body.

“The look that says you’re not entirely sure we’re real. That we’re here. It’s almost like you fear the two of us are going to disappear any moment.”

 _He_ has quite a good reason to feel that way but he wonders what the excuse of his counterpart in this reality is. Insecurity?

“We’re not going anywhere, Hannibal.” Will continues when he does not respond. The empath grabs hold of one of Hannibal’s hands under the covers and entwines their fingers, his grip tight and real. “Not without you.”

“I am very glad to hear that, William.” Hannibal lies, tightening his own grip on the empath’s hand. He’s _not_  glad. Because this, more than any of the others, reminds him of what he had lost. It reminds him of his mistakes and missteps. It reminds him of betrayal.

“Good.” Will replies as he moves to press himself against Hannibal, burying his head in the crook of his neck. His free hand automatically drapes over the younger man and he once again finds himself wondering if his Will would have felt the same against him. He wonders if he will ever find out.

Will is silent for so long that Hannibal thinks he’s asleep. But after a while, he presses a light kiss to his throat and murmurs, “We really should get up before Abby returns.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, just holds the man tighter, breathing in the scent that, against all odds, screams ‘ _home_ ’.

The sudden loss of it all is jarring when he finds himself back in his own bed at the apartment he rented in Nice.

He tries to ignore the burning in his eyes and the lump in his throat.

**VII**

 

Moving to Canada is a risk, but it has been months now since his escape and things have quieted down somewhat. He can’t go to the US just yet and truth be told, he doesn’t really have much of a reason to go either. Well, he does have a reason, but it is by no means sensible.

_Will._

He’s been free of the bittersweet agony of his mysterious dreams for the last couple of months. Only, he’s not as relieved as he should be. His feelings on the matter are completely paradoxical. On one hand, he wants them to stop, knowing that these brief glimpses into distant possibilities he will never get to live are not doing him any favors. But on the other, he can’t deny the fact that they are at least partially filling the emptiness Will’s absence has created in his life.

Either way, this is not good for his sanity.

He can always tell himself that he is seeking out Will so that these visions would stop plaguing him but the truth remains that he would search for the man regardless. The dreams have only given an excuse to do so sooner than he would have otherwise.

Hannibal will forever be drawn to Will; much like a moth is drawn to the flame, lured by the seductive light of the fire. Only, in their case, it has never been all that clear who is the flame and who is the moth. Each of them could burn the other and be burned in return. A sort of mutual destruction. Their last encounter being the perfect testament to this.

But knowing that does little to curb his need for the man.

He wonders, though, if Will still feels the same.

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough. In the mean time, he’ll endure ( _and enjoy_ , whispers a small voice in his mind) the exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure that his random, nightly visions bestow on him.

*

The scent of blood hits him first, before the rest of his senses can orient themselves to the sudden shift in realities. Once he settles into himself, he can feel the solid handle of a linoleum knife in his grip, can hear two sets of labored breathing, one his own, and can see… the broken body of Will Graham lying at his feet, gazing up at him with agony and acceptance coloring his eyes.

The knife falls from his hands as the devastatingly familiar scene brings forth a rush of emotions- _griefangerpainlossdespain hurtfearguiltregretlove_ \- that threaten to cripple him, strip him of whatever barriers he has left and bare him to those haunted blue eyes that has always seen too much.

He drops to his knees beside Will and hands familiar with both giving and taking life move to cover the wound as best as they can, in a vain attempt to undo the damage they wrought.

Only…

This isn’t the same.

The gaping hole in Will’s abdomen is larger and deeper than it _should_  be, so much more severe than the one _he_  remembers. _Fatal_.

Will cannot survive this.

“Hannibal…” Will’s voice is a hoarse whisper, but his eyes are clear and calm despite the pain as they meet his. There is no accusation in them; no anger. Just a quiet acceptance of his impending death.

That just makes it so much worse.

A part of Hannibal- a small, rational part- tells him that this isn’t real, not for him. That part knows that it’s not he who would have to suffer the loss of Will. That part remembers that he’d had no intention of killing Will when he’d pushed the knife into him. That part is fully aware that, after some time, he will wake up in a world where Will Graham is very much alive, though scarred by his hands.

But that part is drowned out by the stark reality of Will dying in his arms.

He isn’t even aware that he is crying or that he’s desperately whispering a continuous mantra of ‘No no no…’ under his breath, until a blood soaked hand rises to weakly wipe his cheeks, Will using the last of his strength to _comfort_ Hannibal.

“It’s okay… this was the only way… Hannibal.” He can only barely make out Will’s words, interspersed with wet gasps and involuntary whimpers.

Hannibal feels as if he’s breaking.

“You can’t die, Will. You can’t.”

It’s a hopeless plea; Will is far beyond saving, clinging onto life with a tenuous grip that is already slipping.

His eyes are free of fear as they seek out Hannibal’s horrified ones. But there is regret in them.

“I’m sorry… it came to this. I did… love you… truly.”

Will’s last breath leaves him in a quiet sigh that might have been his name. His face is strangely serene.

The knowledge that this not his reality is so very distant and does nothing to ease the crushing anguish the sight of Will’s lifeless body evokes in him.

Hannibal leans down to press his lips against ice cold ones, tastes blood and tears.

He wakes not a moment later in his bed with a hushed gasp that turns into shuddering sobs as the image of Will Graham, dead by his hands, continues to assault his mind.  

**VIII**

 

Hannibal waits.

But he doesn’t dream again.

He does not close his eyes and wake up in a world where Will is whole and his.

He waits and he hopes.

Some nights, he tastes blood and tears on his lips. On others, he sees cold, dead blue eyes staring at him from behind his lids.

But he does not dream.

Still, he waits.

Until he can’t.

**IX**

 

It takes him nearly a year to track down Will Graham; ten months and twenty seven days to be precise.

Will has a very good reason for making himself scarce though. He’s still a fugitive, the F.B.I being less than forgiving to him for the murder and mutilation of Randall Tier, especially after he slipped away from right underneath their nose. And Will is, unsurprisingly, pretty good at evading the law given his intimate knowledge of how the system works combined with a keen intellect.

In a way, Hannibal is lucky to have found him as soon as he did. Then again, he is much more determined and persistent than the Bureau.

Will's new residence is eerily similar to his old one in Wolf Trap. A small, cozy farmhouse in the countryside, isolated from the rest of the population by acres of green fields. The setting is rather convenient for Hannibal, of course. He observes Will for three days- no easy task thanks to the empath’s location and his finely honed senses- and memorizes his schedule, simple as it is. Every day, Will leaves the house by about 8 am and heads to the nearby town where he works as a mechanic. He returns by six in the evening.

It is a simple matter for Hannibal to drive up to the house one day after Will has left, pick the lock on the front door and let himself inside. He almost expects an army of dogs to greet him, but the house is empty and silent. It lacks the warmth that a _home_ should have, the one in Virginia _did_  have.

This place just feels horribly impersonal. There are no fishing poles, fly-tying gear, nothing that speaks of the man who occupies this space. A shadow of guilt tugs at Hannibal but he shrugs it off easily. He is not the one responsible for this. He may have influenced the empath, but the decisions had all been Will’s.

He is glad though, that the house doesn’t reek of alcohol and disuse. It would have been disappointing to see Will waste away; see him lose that fiery spark that saw him through events that would have shattered a lesser man.

Though Hannibal doubts he could abandon the man even if he turns out to be less than what he once was. No, he’d just try to build him up instead.

For several hours, he waits; he stretches out on the cheap, hard couch in the living room, making no effort to hide his presence. He’s quite certain that Will would know, the moment he sees the slightly faded Honda Civic outside, exactly who is inside, through instinct if nothing else.

It’s precisely 5:49 pm when Will finally returns. Hannibal tries to ignore the uncharacteristic nervousness he feels as the sound of an engine breaks him out of his musings and drags him out of the couch. Will takes an inordinate amount of time to open his front door, probably wary of whom he expects to find inside. Hannibal braces himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Will’s eyes show not even an ounce of surprise as he takes in the mass murderer in his home, but Hannibal is struck speechless, the sight of the man after so long causing his breath to catch in his throat. He realizes that there is a subtle _something_  to his Will that sets him apart from the incarnations he’d seen in his numinous dreams. Captivated, it takes him longer than usual to register the amused chuckle that escapes Will as his eyes roam over Hannibal.

The ex-profiler’s words are even more shocking than his reaction, or lack thereof.

“It took you long enough. I was starting to think that I’d have to hunt you down.”

Hannibal stops devouring Will with his eyes as the words sink in and for a second, he questions his grasp on reality.

“You were expecting me?” Hannibal makes no effort to hide the incredulity in his voice, but the lopsided smile Will shoots him as he steps into the entryway only serves to further unsettle him.

“Of course, I was ‘expecting’ you. It’s been nearly two years since you left me for dead in Baltimore. I was going to give you another year or so before I came for you.” Will tells him casually, a knowing glint in his eyes as he stares at Hannibal.

This is… not the reaction he had envisaged.

He was braced for anger, for violence, for accusations… not this casual reception.

He places an arm against the wall to steady himself. Will continues to watch him, leaning against the door, never taking his eyes off Hannibal.

“Why?” is all he manages to choke out, staring wide-eyed at Will, his precious _composure_ deserting him completely. The other man shrugs in answer and steps towards him, smile turning somewhat grim.

“Because you need me. As I need you.”

Hannibal shakes his head, trying not to think about how _right_  Will’s words sound, as he steps closer still, pausing a couple of feet away from the older man.

“Why aren’t you angry? After everything I did-”

“Oh, I’m angry. So are you actually, even if it’s buried beneath… everything else for the time being. We’re both angry. At each other. At ourselves. After everything we’ve put each other through, all the pain that we’ve caused… it’d be a miracle if we’re not angry.” Will smoothly closes the short distance between them, standing tantalizingly close to Hannibal, near enough for him to feel the heat emanating from the other. He gently cups Hannibal’s face, mirroring his gesture from their previous ill-fated encounter. He freezes at the contact, simultaneously wanting to lean into the touch and flee from it. He does neither and holds himself perfectly still as a rough thumb faintly strokes over his cheek.

“But even so, we’re both far too obsessed, too enamored to let go. I am a part of you and you are a part of me. We’ll never be free of each other. Don’t you agree, Hannibal?”

All he can manage is a shaky nod, words evading him as his mind works to fully grasp all that is being said. Will steps away from him and he feels the absence far too acutely as the empath turns his back on him to go lock the front door.

Hannibal finally manages to detach himself from the wall- when had he pressed himself against it like that in the first place? -  and makes his way back to the living room, settling down on the couch once more. Will sits down beside him soon after.

“This is not the reaction I expected from you.” Hannibal informs him in a mild voice, not turning to meet the eyes he can feel on him.

“I figured.”

“Why did you plan to wait so long before looking for me?”

Will’s response is to grip his chin and turn his head so that he was looking into his eyes. Had the situation been different, Hannibal would’ve laughed at the irony of Will forcing eye-contact on _him_.

“I was… curious to see if you would come for me.”

Hannibal does laugh at that, though it is a sound born more of shock than mirth.

“So, where to now?” Will asks him, smiling slightly at Hannibal’s reaction.

“Pardon?”

“Well, I doubt you are planning on keeping me company at a ranch in the middle of nowhere. I also doubt you’re going to just leave me here and take off. Actually, I have no intention of letting you do that anyway. So… where to next?”

This time, its Hannibal who reaches out to take Will’s face in his hands, staring intently into the other man’s eyes as a tiny part of him wonders if this is just another dream after all. The rest of him, though, is convinced of the reality of it all.

Will relaxes into the touch, much like he had that night, as Hannibal continues to gaze at him. He ponders Will’s words, marveling at how accurate they are. He had been expecting him to fight Hannibal, forcing his hand perhaps. He never had any intention of leaving here without the man, but Will’s promise ( _threat?_ ) that he wouldn’t let that happen anyway is strangely… reassuring.

Hannibal finally gives in and pulls Will into a tight embrace, tucking his head underneath the younger man’s chin, unabashedly drinking in the familiar scent.

_Home._

“I was thinking,” Hannibal whispers against the hollow of Will’s neck, “Florence.”

 

 

 

[](http://s34.photobucket.com/user/SilverfeatheredAngel/media/Mobile%20Uploads/fotos_20140617010414_zps5e810064.jpg.html)

**Author's Note:**

> You know, when this little idea first formed, I thought ‘Hey, I’ve never tried writing crack before, why not give it a go.’ I wrote all of a single sentence before crack became _this_. What can I say, my muse is a fickle bitch.
> 
> Kudos are love. Comments are true love.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://silverangelfeathers.tumblr.com)


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